


One Night in Karachi

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV), Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, Implied Johnlock, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers meet and share a night in Karachi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Karachi

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I couldn't help it. Did you _see_ Martin Freeman in WTF? I'm just continuing the grand tradition of crossing all of MF  & BC's work together :) Suspend your disbelief & imagine Sherlock took some time to sight-see when he went to Pakistan for Irene. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta [Chelsea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/). You're invaluable as always. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

He sticks out.

Tall, white, and clean shaven amongst a sea of beards and tan skin. The black suit is expensive, perhaps a businessman taking a break in Karachi. Iain pauses his shoot, camera lowering to study the man across the marketplace. He waits by a mountain of oranges, citrus clearing his senses while the man people-watches, unobservant of Iain’s stare.

To say the man was gorgeous would be an understatement. Sweat curls the dark twists of hair on the back of his long neck, the vee of his dress shirt dipping to his collarbones. The man turns to let a cart pass and Iain swallows at the curve of his backside, the shadow of the man’s trousers doing nothing to hide him.

The vendor pushes against Iain’s shoulder, complaining that he’s blocking paying customers. Iain tosses him a few rupees and snags an orange, dropping his camera to hang around his neck. The orange peel sticks beneath his fingernails as he picks at it, following the stranger as he slowly winds his way through the market, absorbing everything around him.

Iain smiles as he watches the vendors eye the man, taking in the suit and imagining the foreign money that must wait in his pockets. Curious, Iain continues to observe him, deciding he might not be a businessman after all. He pops pieces of the orange and chews thoughtfully. There’s a crisp alertness around him, like a bird, something in the way his eyes scan every pocket of the busy area. A tourist, maybe, but there’s none of the usual signs - the crumpled map, the padded wallet of exchanged bills, the practical shoes.

A chicken runs past Iain, followed by a girl, her dupatta falling from her hair to her shoulders and he snaps a picture of her just in time. He should be paying more attention to his surroundings. Freelance photography pays the bills, but only when he actually takes photos. He reluctantly turns from the mysterious stranger, heading back the way he came and tossing the orange rind in an overflowing bin.

oOo

Iain stands on a rickety bridge next to the market, its well-worn planks crossing a shallow canal with brown water. He fiddles with his camera, adjusting the settings for the sunshine that decided to make an appearance after a cloudy morning. Lifting his sunglasses, he squints and regrets not having a digital camera for only a moment - he still enjoys the practicalities of film when he gets the chance.  

He brings the camera up to his face, peering through and focusing across the canal, hoping to get a decent landscape view of the market. Instead, he sees the man from before in the crowd. He tracks his lens on him speaking slowly with an ancient woman. He holds up a scarf and pulls a finger down the seam as he negotiates in what Iain assumes to be Urdu.

Iain clicks a quick shot - the man’s hands are simply divine - and has a moment to think. He can go back to his hotel in the foreign district, drink too much whiskey and sleep alone. Or he can go try his chances with the argumentative, but gorgeous stranger and maybe have a better night. He licks his lips and pops the lens cap back on before embarking, kicking up loose clouds of red dirt behind him.

He slips through the crowds, thinning now as the day winds down. He can hear the man’s accent, though he’s not sure where he’s from yet. Obviously not native to speaking Urdu, he could be a Swede or…

“There are better ways to negotiate, mate.”

The woman behind the counter looks ready to revolt, obviously frustrated with her erstwhile customer.

Stopping his rant, the man gives Iain a look of surprise, his mouth forming a name before eyeing him up quickly and frowning. Iain gives himself a once-over - is there something on his face?  

“I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

Iain smiles, slow and patient.

“Haggling goes both ways. You’ve got to give a little to get a little. First time in the Middle East?”

The man scowls and drops the scarf, offended. The woman snatches it up, folding it with jerky movements.

“No. I’ve been here before. I don’t want to buy the scarf.”

“No? Why are you pawing it then?”

The man turns away from the booth and the merchant looks more murderous by the second since two foreigners decided to strike up a conversation at her shop front.

“She told the last customer walking by that these were all hand-made when they’re clearly mass produced. I told her business would be better if she stopped lying & produced products people actually wanted.”

Iain smiles. What a charming asshole.

“I’m not sure you _have_ been here that often. All that pale skin, you’re going to look like a tomato at a fry-up. Turn that English Rose complexion red all over. I’m sure this lady would be willing to sell you the scarf as a cover up.”

The man scowls but Iain doesn’t sense any heat behind it. Funny, usually he’s being told off at this point.

“I’m not here for long.”

“Let me show you the sights of Karachi while you’re here then. You’re close enough to my fellow countryman. Iain MacKelpie.” He sticks out a tanned hand, but it’s not shaken.

Iain waits while the man looks him over again and while he doesn’t see him come to a decision, he feels a shift in their dynamic.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he sniffs. Sherlock starts to walk off, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ve already seen the sights of Karachi. Show me something more interesting.”

It’s not a bad thing to watch him walk off, even if those wool trousers must be drenching him. Iain will just have to show him a way to get them off. He wolf grins at his own cleverness and takes off in pursuit.

 oOo

Iain sips at his whiskey, pleasantly buzzed. Sherlock drank two fingers and pulled a third of the stick out of his ass, the conversation flowing easily between them. Relaxed and louche, they recline and look up at the stars from the rooftop, the heat of the day still radiating from the mud bricks beneath them. Sherlock breaks the silence every few moments with another demand.

“Tell me about Morocco.” 

“Hotter than here.”

“It’s closer to the equator. Tell me about what _you_ did there, not the stupid weather.” Iain is coming to enjoy the exasperation in Sherlock’s voice.

“Freelance work, much like here. I was working for a travel magazine, but I didn’t like it much. I did get to photograph the wedding of an ambassador there. If you want to really learn about a culture, drink with them or go to a wedding.”

“Ah yes, you would know about the drinking part,” Sherlock sighs as he reaches for Iain’s flask. He tips a touch of the amber liquid into his hotel glass and they both watch it swirl.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean? I’m not the only one carrying around illegal alcohol in this city.”

“You’re not, but this is a very good whiskey for being picked up from the black market. A bootlegger typically sells a bottle like this for upwards of 60 pounds. I imagine this one came from the ‘upwards’ part,” Sherlock’s mouth curls in a slow smile as he takes another sip.

That smile does things to Iain. He takes a swig of his own glass.

“Just because I enjoy the finer things of life doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”

“No, you’re one who likes a thrill. _Drinking_ on a rooftop with a _male_ stranger you’re trying to seduce, in a country that very much doesn’t approve.”

Iain glances at him sharply. “What do you mean _trying_? It’s working, isn’t it?”

Sherlock laughs and it’s lovely, Iain thinks. A rich sound, none of this posh business he’s been putting up with half the night. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle and he pushes a hand to his chest as if to quiet his own merriment.

“You don’t have to look so offended,” Sherlock chuckles. He quiets and his eyes catch the starlight, that mouth curving again. “It’s working.”

Another drink between them, perhaps they’re a little closer than the last one.

“So if it’s working…” Iain waggles his eyebrows.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “We’re not children. Ask me what you want, then we’ll get on with it.”

Iain stands on wobbly legs and puts a hand over his heart, face solemn, eyes closed. “Sherlock Holmes. I would like to take you to my bedroom, snog you senseless, then fuck you brainless, perhaps with a wee bit of cuddling after. Would that be agreeable to your person?”

There’s a long silence and Iain cracks an eyelid to peek at Sherlock’s bemused expression. It quickly schools into equal solemnity with Iain’s own as Sherlock stands and sticks out his hand. They shake and Sherlock nods. “Very agreeable.”

The pink in his cheeks glows a little brighter with his face so close and Iain can’t help standing on his toes to sneak a very quick kiss. No one could see them from the roof anyway. Sherlock’s surprised breath tastes like the top-notch whiskey they’ve been indulging in.

Iain grabs Sherlock’s hand and they start down the stairs towards Iain’s room.

oOo

Sherlock flops onto Iain’s twin bed before the door has even closed. He holds up one foot and wiggles it at Iain who slips it off and tosses it behind him, knocking into his open suitcase. His fingers dig into the arches of Sherlock’s feet and Sherlock releases a deep groan of contentment. It drops right to the bottom of Iain’s stomach. If that’s what he can get from just touching his feet…!

“These packed dirt roads can be hard on posh feet,” Iain intones. He gets the feeling Sherlock would kick him if he didn’t want Iain to continue massaging. As Sherlock lifts the other shoe, Iain tugs it off and digs in. The groan is even louder and Iain uses a hint of nail on Sherlock’s ankle.

“You’ll have to keep it down. The drywall doesn’t soundproof much.”

Sherlock presses a closed fist to his lips, arching his back as Iain finds a sensitive spot. That’s about all a full-blooded Scotsman can take on a good day. He drops his foot and starts to crawl slowly over the length of the bed, dragging his body against Sherlock’s. They feel each other fully for the first time and Iain definitely likes what he’s discovering.

He lies on top of Sherlock for a moment, chin propped on his sternum atop his folded hands. “Last chance to back out. Once you go MacKelpie, you can never go back,” Iain remarks seriously.

Sherlock snorts. “I’m sure I’ll be ruined for all other men after you.”

Iain considers him for a moment. “I don’t think it’ll be true in your case. There’s someone else back home, I think.”

The mirth drops from Sherlock’s eyes and they take a bit longer to focus, but he’s considering Iain with a different look than earlier. Sherlock nods slowly, trying to gauge if that will upset Iain.

Iain has no room to judge a stranger and leans up on his forearms, sealing his mouth to Sherlock’s. He can’t wait to see what devastation he’ll leave behind with beard burn on that pale skin. Sherlock quickly opens his mouth, but they take it slowly, searing and exploratory. Iain pulls back after a moment  and licks his lips, which makes Sherlock’s pupils go black.

He does it again and smirks, happy to please the gorgeous man beneath him. Sherlock reaches up to touch his own chin and the red marks already forming before stroking his fingers through Iain’s stubble. He leans forward and places several kisses along Iain’s jawline, lips ruffling the hair they find there.

Iain rears his head back as far as he can go, leaving room for Sherlock to explore his neck. He has a feeling Sherlock knows how to find all the best spots on a person without having to be told. Iain’s spot is right below his ear and he can’t help the downward press of his hips as Sherlock finds it and latches on, laving with teeth and tongue.

Going into full sexy, wriggly eel mode, Iain shudders helplessly as Sherlock presses onward. He can’t helped the strained, “Sherlock…” he lets out. The whiskey swishes around his brain and makes the sudden flip from below seem more fluid than the reality. Sherlock looms above him, curls tousled and teeth bared as if in pain.

“Say it again,” Sherlock whispers. His eyes are closed.

Iain doesn’t hesitate, keeps his voice low and lets the real attraction he’s feeling bleed in.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock rubs his cheek against Iain’s stubble once more before sliding down his body, fingers catching on buttons and zippers until Iain is undressed faster than he’s ever been before. He huffs a breath and makes a mental note to ask about that trick.

“Whoever you’re pining after is one lucky man when he finds out.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, tension replacing the languid sensuality of Sherlock from a moment before. Iain immediately grabs for Sherlock’s hair in a soft grip, his head hovering face down near Iain’s thigh.

Iain speaks to the ceiling. “Sorry. Sorry, please. Forget I said that. I don’t care about any of that, believe me. I do say shite things when I’ve had a drink or two.” 

Iain waits, holding his breath without meaning too. He looks down to Sherlock who is watching him. Releasing his hair, Iain grabs Sherlock’s shoulders instead and tugs him back up. Gentle kisses pass as an apology and soon they grow heated once more as Sherlock relaxes. Iain licks into Sherlock’s mouth, can’t get enough of his cupid’s bow, his teeth drawn to his plush bottom lip.

Sherlock touches his jaw again, his fully clothed body lying atop Iain’s.

“Let’s not talk about him,” Sherlock murmurs. Iain nods.

After a moment of being crushed, Iain rolls them to be side by side, Sherlock’s hands never leaving his face. They’re so large that Iain reckons Sherlock could hold the width of his jaw in one handbreadth. It makes him shiver for unknown reasons, but he likes the thought - Sherlock pulling Iain’s mouth to his in rough motions, forcing him to look into those grey eyes.

He moans and tries to hike his leg up over Sherlock’s hip, but his leg is trapped in his trousers, halfway pulled down his thighs. Iain sits up a bit, Sherlock reluctant to let him go.

“You’ve got a beard obsession,” Iain smirks as he sheds clothing. Sherlock, unbothered, kisses his bare shoulder and down his arm while he undoes his own shirt buttons.

“And you have an oral obsession.” Iain can hear the smugness and though it’s never embarrassed him before, he knows a blush is creeping up his throat. Odd. He shoves his socks off rather violently, indignant.

“There’s nothing abnormal about that, I just like when people use… their … mouths….” Sherlock reaches Iain’s hands in his trailing kisses and sucks two of Iain’s fingers into his mouth. Wet, Sherlock’s tongue laving between the webbing of his fingers before using tense suction, up down up down. Iain’s harder than any grown man has a right to be after two seconds of the pantomime.

Obscene sucking noises come from Sherlock’s sinful mouth and Iain pushes forward, leaving his fingers where they are, straddling Sherlock’s lap. He places the other hand on Sherlock’s neck, reaching for anything to hold onto. He feels able to do fuck-all at the moment, he’s so helpless with arousal. Watching Sherlock’s lips stretch to take three fingers makes his cock jump and he presses down against Sherlock’s own, rubbing his crotch into Sherlock’s lower stomach.

“Please,” he begs and doesn’t recognize his own voice. He touches Sherlock’s stretched lips with his free hand, fingers swiping through the thin line of saliva on his chin. He needs, he needs, he _needs_ …

“What do you need?” Iain’s not sure if he said it aloud or not, but honestly could care less. He cares more about the fact Sherlock removed his fingers to ask him.

Broad shoulders flex as Sherlock leans back on his hands, a gorgeous flush spreading across all that pale skin on his chest. He looks up at Iain still perched on his lap and Iain’s mind temporarily goes offline. The things he wants to do to this man.

He shakes his head to clear it - one night stands are usually saucy but never this intense. He falls backwards off Sherlock’s lap and spreads his legs, indicating with his pointer fingers.

“I want you to give me the best bloody blowjob I’ve ever had. With a mouth like that, I’ve got loads of faith in you.”

Sherlock grasps both his knees and pushes a little further, situating himself on his belly between Iain’s thighs. “Such a charmer,” he murmurs, but there’s amusement in his voice. He snaps his fingers until Iain gets with the program and smacks a condom into his palm. Iain chooses this moment to remember that his cock is out and there’s a gorgeous half-stranger running his nose along the underside of it. A vertigo dip makes him drop his head back on the bed, cursing and counting his lucky stars.

The first touch of Sherlock’s lips is blocked by latex and Iain jerks his head back up. Sherlock holds the condom in a perfect ‘o’ in his mouth, stretching it down the length of Iain’s prick, straight to the back of his long throat. Iain can’t help the hand that lands almost frantically on top of dark curls.

Sherlock pulls up and back, pleased as the cat who got the cream.

Iain gasps a weak laugh. “No one does that in real life.”

The smug grin doesn’t leave Sherlock’s face as he gets back to work, drawing the tip of Iain’s prick between softened lips, sucking gently before easing his tongue underneath. Gentle pressure alternates with deep plows into Sherlock’s soft palate, his gag reflex nonexistent. Iain can’t find anything to hold onto - his hands grip the bed sheets, Sherlock’s hands, the ruffled mess of his own hair.

His hips work ceaselessly and Sherlock lets him ride, taking each fluid thrust with pleasure. He swaps to his fist and dips down to lick each of Iain’s balls into his mouth, first one then the other, taking care to keep Iain’s rhythm with his fingers.

Iain alternates covering his eyes with looking down at the unbearably erotic sight between his legs. Sherlock’s lying flat on his stomach, hands braced on Iain’s hips but unresisting. His legs are spread and his backside moves in gentle rocks, pushing his clothed cock into the bed clothes for what must be excruciating pressure. Iain thinks about Sherlock coming in his pants just from sucking his cock and his eyes roll back and he drops again, unable to stand the idea. He really wants to see that strange face contorted in pleasure as he comes.

The world is ending right in Sherlock’s mouth as Iain feels his climax rushing in. He can see the shape of his cock bulging Sherlock’s cheek as he teases him, shallow thrusts of his tongue up and down his prick. The deep groan from the man between his legs is what pushes him over, Sherlock feeling Iain’s climax starting in the tensing of his stomach, one large hand spread across the muscles there.

Iain curls almost uncomfortably in two, coming to a near sitting position as his body is wracked with pleasure. He watches those lips stretched and red take him to the root as his orgasm shakes him down to his bones. Sherlock keeps eye contact and Iain is helpless to look away, mouth slack and brain going offline as he finishes, flopping back gracelessly on the sweat drenched sheets.

Sherlock doesn’t give him any time to recover before he’s crawling on top of Iain, frantically scrabbling at the placket of his trousers, crouched on all fours above him. Iain lifts boneless fingers to undo the straight line of buttons, lifting his head enough to lick into the notch of Sherlock’s throat. He smells like sweat and the desert and more sweat, absolutely lovely. Shiny saliva dries on his chin as Sherlock pants. 

Fingers are in front of his face, trembling slightly as Sherlock offers him his palm. Iain licks it quickly, tasting himself and sighing. He looks out from underneath his lashes, sated and blood warm as Sherlock frantically fists his cock, boxers pushed to just below his balls and his beautiful cock framed in the vee of his open trousers.  

“Come on, you gorgeous creature,” Iain purrs. Sherlock gives a throaty whine, pitched low and desperate. His fingers move over himself at a furious speed and Iain presses his hips up, pushing the head of Sherlock’s leaking cock into the light fur of his stomach. Blue green eyes close as Sherlock rubs against him, a bead of sweat dropping from Sherlock’s forehead to Iain’s throat.

Sherlock gasps above him, looking down at his body. “You look so…”

 _So what?_ Iain thinks. _So good? So sexy? So much like him?_ He decides it doesn’t matter and runs a hand down his own chest, tweaking a nipple on the way down. If Sherlock is getting off on looking at him, Iain has absolutely no problem giving him what he wants. He groans, gripping Sherlock by the hips and encouraging him with a bared throat.

“Yes, yes, that’s it. Come on, let me see you.” Iain can’t help talking - he can never shut up, especially not now. “Faster, Sherlock. Fucking get on with it.”

“Shut… up.” Sherlock breathes above him, eyes open now, watching his cock smear against Iain’s stomach. Taking pity, Iain helps, running his fingers through the mess that’s already there as Sherlock keeps pumping.

“Ahh yeah, you’re going to come all over me. Mark me up, I want to see it.” 

He can feel the tension ripple through Sherlock’s frame as he starts to climax. He’s bloody glad he keeps his eyes open to see that gorgeous face twisted in pleasure, grinding his hips down almost painfully into Iain’s torso. Sherlock hangs his head in surrender as wet heat smudges the space between them. 

His arms tremble with the effort of holding himself up and Iain wraps his arms around his shoulder blades, pulling him to his chest. Sherlock drops with little coaxing, rolling to the side and smashing his nose into Iain’s neck, his breath coming in harsh pants as he regains his facilities.

Iain pats the bedside table till he finds a dirty pair of socks, tying off the condom and wiping himself down. He grabs the other sock to wipe off Sherlock, who begins to turn away from him, whether from sensitivity or recalcitrance, Iain doesn’t know.

Grabbing one of Sherlock’s long arms, Iain flips his back to Sherlock’s chest, snuggling backwards as the little spoon. Sherlock doesn’t let his arm relax, feeling tense as if he’s going to pull away and there won’t be any of that, thanks very much. Iain pulls his arm down until he can twine his fingers with his own over his lower stomach.

“I’ll not have you breaking a deal, Sherlock Holmes. When I laid out my terms, I distinctly remember saying ‘a wee cuddle’ would be involved after the fucking. You’ll have to suffer through it, I’m afraid,” he says matter-of-factly.

Another moment of hesitance before Sherlock grunts and relaxes his arm. Another moment and he shifts one of his legs between Iain’s own, shifting his head down a little to press his nose to Iain’s hair before settling his forehead on his nape. Iain smiles - that’s more like it.

He drifts off before he knows it, more comfortable than he’s been in weeks.  

oOo

Iain’s wakes himself up with snoring. His mouth is dry and he sits up, bleary-eyed and bed-headed. He wipes a hand over his face before he remembers the warm body wrapped around his the night before. Not surprising to find the bed empty, but it still stings a little.

He lays to rest the idea of happy morning after mutual blowjobs as he gets up to brush his teeth. The edge of a hangover nips at him. It’s gotten harder to avoid them the older he’s gotten, so he takes a few paracetamol to ease the ache. He tosses the bottle back on his nightstand and notices a card lying there.

Toothbrush sticking out the side of his mouth, he brushes slowly as he turns the card over in his hand.

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_

_221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE_

He turns it over to find an email address embossed and a scribbled telephone number with the message:

_Text me if you come across any interesting murders._

Iain smiles around his toothbrush and figures that’s as close to a kiss goodbye he was going to get from Sherlock Holmes. He tucks the card into a pocket of his suitcase for safe keeping and goes to spit in the sink.

Examining himself in the mirror, he notices the lovely morning-after glow all over his smug face. Not such a bad evening in Karachi after all. He goes to get dressed, eyeing his suitcase. Murders, huh. He’s can’t say he’s surprised, exactly.

As he pulls on his trousers, he muses about a change of scenery. He’s not normally one to chase a one night stand around the globe, but if Sherlock Holmes is offering some continuation, Iain finds it very hard to say no. Grabbing his shirt, he can’t help smiling to himself; he hears London is nice this time of year.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Stand-in](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684725) by [Itsallfine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine)




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